


Just My Luck

by Elvendork



Series: Fortunes [1]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Death, Five Times, Gen, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-10
Updated: 2011-09-10
Packaged: 2017-10-23 14:38:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/251438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvendork/pseuds/Elvendork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people have all the luck. Martin Crieff is not one of them.</p><p>For a prompt which asked for "five times Martin's bad luck almost got him killed...and one time it did".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own, etcetera.  
> *WARNING - fairly vivid description of a road accident*  
> This was scribbled in a notebook, proof read and typed up on a whim on no sleep between 2am and 6am. Fair warning.

1.  
   
When Martin Crieff is nearly five years old, all he wants in the whole world is to be an aeroplane. He will be, when he grows up; he has it all planned out. And then he’ll take Caitlin to France because she says it’s magical there and all _she_ wants in the whole world is to climb the Eiffel Tower. Why you would want to _climb_ something that big when you could just _fly_ is a mystery to Martin, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t think he’ll mind anything once he gets his wings.  
   
And he’ll take Simon to Japan too, because that’s where all the best games come from and it’s really far away and did you know they don’t even use English letters? Martin wouldn’t have believed anyone else who had told him this. He finds it hard enough trying to make sense of there being a whole twenty six letters to remember, and all in the right order too – surely you can’t be _allowed_ any more? But Simon said so. And Simon knows everything.  
   
Before he can do any of this though, he needs to practice. How will he ever learn to fly if he doesn’t practice?  
   
Their street isn’t long enough or wide enough to be a _real_ runway, but he’s not a real plane yet either so that’s okay, it will do. It is very straight, right up to the sharp corner all the way at the other end, and hardly anybody ever drives along it really. Especially on a weekend.  
   
He’s not supposed to play on the roads. He promised Mummy before she let him come out into the garden. But he’s not _really_ breaking his promise is he? After all, it isn’t a road anymore, it’s a runway now. It’s _his_ runway.  
   
So he checks very carefully to make absolutely positively sure there are no cars, in case he’s caught so he can tell Mummy that he _looked_ , honest, and nothing was coming so it was all safe wasn’t it?

Then he strides as purposefully as his little legs allow to the centre of the runway and spreads out his wings – well, his arms _really_ but he can’t very well practice with real wings until they’ve grown, can he?  
   
He twists his outstretched hand like he has seen Daddy do to start the car and makes little engine revving noises that he isn’t _completely_ sure aeroplanes make, but he’s never seen a proper one up close before, not starting up, not _yet_.  
   
‘Three,’ he announces boldly, shaking curly ginger locks out of his eyes, ‘two,’ he fixes his gaze dead ahead and flexes his arm-wings, ‘one...take off!’  
   
He goes from standing to full clumsy speed so quickly he lurches and trips and almost falls flat on his face straight away but rights himself before that happens and charges full pelt down the street with his eyes squeezed shut now and the wind whistling through his hair – ‘ _brrrr!_ ’ he shouts, ‘ _bbrrrrrr, bbbrrrrrrr –_ ’ he thinks he might _actually_ do it this time, he might actually take off and imagine Mummy and Daddy’s faces then – any second now he’ll lift into the air and his wings will grow and –  
   
There’s a squeal and a screech, and a very loud voice saying very bad words and Martin opens his eyes but he’s too late to stop now and runs face first into the hastily swerved and halted car.

He lands with a smack on the floor and suddenly his nose hurts and his bottom hurts and he thinks he might be bleeding and he’s crying and then there are hands on him, rough hands grabbing his shoulders and pulling him up and someone talking –  
   
‘Jesus Christ, Martin!’ Daddy gasps desperately. He looks pale and terrified. His hands are shaking. Martin wonders if he’s going to get into trouble for denting Daddy’s car; it only makes him cry harder. ‘Oh my God, f – God, oh Hell, Martin, you stupid boy you could have got yourself _killed_ –’

Daddy pulls him into a hug, but Martin doesn’t notice that Daddy is crying too.  
 


	2. Chapter 2

2.  
   
By the time Martin is ten things have changed. Caitlin still desperately wants to go to Paris, but when she says magical now it’s with a different sort of meaning to it that Martin can’t quite understand. Simon is no longer interested in going to Japan, even though Martin has known the English alphabet for years now and was quite willing for Simon to teach him the Japanese one. No; Simon wants America now. New York, or Washington – somewhere _big_.  
   
Martin no longer wants to be an aeroplane. Not that, secretly, he doesn’t ever dream about flying on his own, without machines to help him – not that he would say _no_ , if it were possible...  
   
He’s old enough now to know that he can’t be an actual plane though, so instead he has settled on the next best thing and is resolutely determined to become a pilot. Captain, if he can, because he just _needs_ to fly somehow, anyhow, he doesn’t care. He can’t explain it – but he hates his horrible uncoordinated feet, they feel so awfully clumpy. It would be much neater to fly than to walk, wouldn’t it? He wonders why people haven’t done more research into it.  
   
He saw a documentary yesterday though. About penguins. It said they were flightless birds – and Martin had instantly felt intensely fond of the poor things, just like him stuck flapping around uselessly on the ground when they knew they really belonged in the air.  
   
But _underwater_...the documentary said they didn’t even have wings, the sad little creatures – but they _did_ have flippers.  
   
And then he had seen them swimming. And his mouth had fallen open. Because they were _flying_...Martin had an idea then. It’s still not quite _real_ flying, but it will have to suffice until he is old enough to get his pilot’s licence.  
   
He has to be careful of course. He dutifully makes sure his earplugs are in properly while still in the changing rooms of the pool, and waits for Simon, who is supposed to be looking after him, though he does so grudgingly, before climbing, not jumping, into the shallow end of the water where he’s only covered up to his waist. He does a few widths with his head above water, just to make sure.  
   
Then he ducks under with an enormous breath so he can stay as long as possible, plunging further, deeper, gliding with a kind of ease he has never known on dry ground – it is wonderful, glorious, beautiful – he knows exactly how the penguins feel as he kicks and pulls smoothly at the water, dodging effortlessly between other swimmers – or standers in most cases. Why are they just standing around? Don’t they know how...how _impossible_ this is? How _fantastic_?  
   
He surfaces for air once or twice, barely registering that he has lost Simon in all the crowds and the excitement – why has he never tried this before? He’s had lessons, very brief, and only really enough to stay afloat but this – it’s natural, it’s _easy_.  
   
He stays under for longer every time, determined to make the most of every last second each lungful of air gives him, grinning wildly. He stays until his chest is burning for oxygen and he’s starting to feel lightheaded, then begins to make his ascent.  
   
But there is an enormous rubber ring, with someone equally enormous trying to sit on it, blocking his way.  
   
He veers sideways and swims diagonally upwards the other way.  
   
But a gangly pair of laughing teenagers splash past and he’s buffeted back.  
   
He needs air, he’s starting to feel dizzy now, and earplugs or no...  
   
He tries again and a woman paddles past with a baby, and again but a little girl throws herself in with a splash that overturns him like a tidal wave and he realises he’s reached the deep end now, starting to panic – his vision is fading and his lungs are _screaming_ and he needs to breathe so badly he’s blacking out –  
   
A long arm wraps tightly around his chest and heaves – there’s a whistle and Simon’s voice, movement and _air_ , which Martin gasps in desperately as the lifeguard pulls his up and to the side, coughing and retching and _gasping_...  
   
Maybe he’s not so good at swimming after all.


	3. Chapter 3

3.  
   
By the time Martin is preparing for his fifth CPL, everything has changed again. Caitlin doesn’t want to go to Paris anymore, because she’s already been, met a man, married him, and had a child with him. Simon has been to America _and_ Japan, and failed to teach Martin any of the language or indeed learn it himself despite the fact he now owns considerable shares in several highly successful businesses over there.  
   
Martin now knows far more than just the alphabet but it doesn’t seem to be helping much. He hasn’t gone swimming very often since the disastrous attempt a decade and a half ago, but he does still feel a sort of kinsman ship with the pitiful penguins. In his exhaustion of staying up all night yet _again_ to study, he even finds himself doodling one on the corner of his notebook.  
   
It’s summer, thankfully, and the students have all gone home for the holidays, so the is at least mercifully quiet for once. Just Martin and his lonely penguin in their draughty little attic with ten years’ worth of notes stacked high around them.  
   
Colour coded, underlined and meticulously filed, every scrap of paper has been reverentially cared for the whole time he’s had them. Not even a single doodle anywhere. Except Boris. He’ll call his penguin Boris, he decides. He’s not sure why.  
   
God he needs some sleep.  
   
His eyes itch desperately.  
   
Will just five minutes do any harm?  
   
‘You won’t tell on me, will you Boris?’ Martin asks the penguin.  
   
Then, _oh God_ , he thinks, _I’m actually going mad._  
   
But really...just a few minutes? Can it hurt? He really does need to get some sleep before the exam...but no! He did that last time, he put a few stupid hours of shuteye ahead of essential last minute revision and where did that get him?  
   
He knows this stuff, he _knows it_ , he just panics, that’s all, and won’t be more relaxed if he’s a little better rested?  
   
His eyes slide closed and the pen droops from his hand momentarily before he snaps himself back to consciousness again. He stands up to stretch and trips over the chair leg...exhaustion makes him even more clumsy – that could cost him the test...  
   
But he has to study, he _has to_...coffee, yes, coffee, that’s what he needs. Lots of it. Now.  
   
‘Back in a minute, Boris,’ he mumbles, tripping towards the trapdoor that leads into his attic with all the grace of the hopelessly drunk, except he hasn’t had a drop of alcohol in weeks. He’s been far too busy studying and in any case he can’t afford it...  
   
He makes it down the ladder okay, which is a miracle as he is half asleep on his feet, and across the landing without too much trouble.  
   
When he stumbles on the stairs he thinks for one crazy moment he might be flying, before his knee splits open in pain and he crashes helplessly to the bottom of the stairs, not that he remembers anything after cracking his head on the banister.  
   
By the time he wakes up in hospital at midday his first thought it not gratitude that one of the students returned to collect some books and promptly called an ambulance. It’s that he’s going to miss his exam.  
 


	4. Chapter 4

4.

Martin is probably the only person the world capable of being hospitalised for smoke inhalation at a fire safety course, he decides miserably. It isn’t even like he’s done anything wrong. It’s not even like it was part of the _course_.  
   
Stupid stupid stupid company rules and stupid stupid stupid company kitchen. New pilot. _Pilot_ – he’s actually a pilot after all this time but even that feeling isn’t enough to drown the one of miserable failure at making such a complete fool of himself so early on.  
   
His Dad never saw him manage it, _finally_ , after so many years of trying, he’s here, and his Dad has been dead for four months. Caitlin is patronisingly affectionate and faux proud. Simon probably couldn’t care less, Martin thinks savagely, probably only pause to laugh at his baby brother’s miserable luck before he turns around and sweeps another beautiful girl off her feet without even trying.  
   
The thing is, it happened because he was so determined _not_ to make an idiot of himself this time. He skipped lunch in the company canteen to hide himself along in an adjoining room to study for the afternoon’s course. New pilots only. Which actually meant new employees, not just the newly qualified, but still meant only Martin. He put his earplugs in for good measure to drown out the noise of the canteen.  
   
It’s a combination of this and his intense concentration, to the effect of zoning out entirely, that meant he didn’t hear the somewhat croaky old fire alarm that must be horrendously under regulation. He didn’t see the fire because there was no window in the door. He didn’t notice the smoke curling through the cracks between the door and the walls until it was too late and in the hurry to evacuate someone’s chair was knocked against the door and barred his way out.  
   
Even as he rattled the handle and pounded the door and screamed himself hoarse, all he could think was _not again_.  



	5. Chapter 5

5.  
   
Being in a plane as a passenger and being in a plane as a pilot are two very different experiences. Especially if you’re a passenger who happens to also be a pilot – just not on this flight, unfortunately.  
   
Especially again if you are Martin Crieff, and therefore have a persistent list of worst case scenarios playing through your head on an endless loop.  
   
And once more for the full effect – if you happen to be Martin Crieff, you also have an inescapable habit of managing to live out not one, but several of these worst case scenarios.  
   
When the turbulence starts, Martin knows all the things that could go wrong. He knows all the damage that could be done to a plane. He’s memorised percentages of every outcome –  
   
But he’s being ridiculous. It’s just a little bumpy...well, okay, quite a lot bumpy, but still, the people in charge of this aircraft are _professionals_ , they know how to do their jobs, of course they do. He knows how hard they must have worked to get here, the hours upon hours of study if they are anything like him – except oh God no, don’t be like him, please don’t be like him! With his luck and track record? Oh please no don’t be like him, anything but that...  
   
But he’s on the plane anyway, isn’t he? And his back luck is going to bring him down and all of them with him and they’re all going to die and it’s all his fault because of his stupid luck –  
   
No, no, he can’t die, he _can’t_. He has a job interview tomorrow. He wants to leave this company, he hates this job even if it is flying but most of all he hates the people – the jibes and the insults have followed him relentlessly since the fire – he wants to get away from it. He can’t die with this being his only experience of piloting...he can’t die without even _interviewing_ elsewhere, before he’s even had a chance to find out what the mysterious “MJN” stands for at least...  
   
Other people are screaming now. Martin doesn’t scream. He sits rigid as marble with knuckles as white where he’s gripping his arm-rests as though they along can save his life, reciting emergency procedures under his breath to calm himself only it _isn’t working_ –  
   
When the oxygen masks fall he pulls his on without a fuss, with every appearance of a kind of calm he can never deliberately show but which is absolutely false because he. Is. _Terrified_. His eyes are wide, wide open and pleading. Every drop of colour has drained from his skin and he’s still silent and praying _please_ don’t die...  
   
He doesn’t think he breathes again until they land at long, long last, when he releases a huge sigh of relief he didn’t even know he was holding.  
   
He’s alive.  
   
He’s alive.  
   
He’s getting good at this close call lark.


	6. Chapter 6

+1.  
   
Three years later, give or take, it’s the coldest day of Martin’s entire life. Even in his thickest, warmest coat, his best jumper, three T-shirts, two pairs of gloves and two pairs of socks, he’s still shivering as he walks along the pavement, but he forces himself to walk slowly. He doesn’t trust his feet at the best of times, but on this ice, with his luck? It’s dangerous just to think about it.  
   
It’s surprisingly busy for such a bitterly cold day, Martin thinks, and finds some comfort in the fact that there are other people than him in desperate need of January Sales to see them through the next month or so. There’s a sort of comradery with it. Actually that’s one of the perks of living with students. They’re all permanently broke too, so he’s never in unsympathetic company in that respect.  
   
Despite the cold and the financial black cloud that follows him like a sulky cartoon character, Martin is in a good mood. For no particular reason other than he just _is_. It’s such a rare thing for him that it’s an effort not to skip rather than walk – too much of one to spare any concentration for keeping the small smile  from his face.  
   
His wallet is lighter than he would like, perhaps, but heavier than it has been of late; students across the country are back at University after Christmas now and he’s just coming to the end of the seasonal rush.  
   
He’s coming up to a corner, a T-junction in the road, when it happens. One minute he is moving warily but steadily upright, the next his left toe catches something, maybe his own foot, and he stumbles, arms flailing as he pitches forward but manages to swing himself back up before he falls – already his feet are sliding though, flat against the sheet ice and protesting every inch of the way to no avail.  
   
For one split second that lasts an entire lifetime and then some, Martin sees everything in horrendously vivid unreal clarity, though for some reason in slow motion black and white, and he knows what’s going to happen, with no way of stopping it, long before it does.  
   
The street he is exiting is almost devoid of cars. The one it joins at a perfect ninety degrees has six vehicles on it, that Martin can see.  
   
One is a van not unlike his own, except newer, and he wouldn’t dare risk driving it in this weather – and if he _did_ , he would use his indicator before turning a corner, which in any case he would never do at that speed.  
   
Coming from the same direction as the colourless van, though further away, are two cars; an elderly lady in a mid-tone Ford Ka and behind her a boy barely old enough to have passed his test in a very dark Fiat. On the other side a woman in an equally deep toned Range Rover has two children in the backseat, all singing merrily to a tune Martin cannot hear. In front of her are two silvery cars, both driven by middle aged men; a Renault of some sort and a Lexus.  
   
For this one long second Martin feels a terrible swooping sensation in his stomach. The sound is turned off as well as the colour. He knows he cannot stop this, cannot escape this time, and even after all the near misses he’s had in his life he still thinks _this can’t possibly be happening to me_.  
   
Then in a sudden rush the noise is all back and the colour explodes, screaming a warning at him but his feet are still sliding and the van is still moving and _no no no no_ –  
   
Captain Martin Crieff, who _did_ manage to find out what MJN stands for before he died, is still breathing when the van strikes him. But after it has thrown him up in the air like a rag doll and he’s come crashing back to shatter the windscreen and crumple to the ground with a trickle of blood under his hairline, he isn’t anymore.


End file.
